


De Morgan's Laws

by Joules Mer (joulesmer)



Series: Threads [2]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Christopher Pike Lives, Dadmiral Christopher Pike, Father-Son Relationship, Five Year Mission, M/M, Star Trek Beyond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:53:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21904024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joulesmer/pseuds/Joules%20Mer
Summary: Christopher Pike was vice-admiral of Yorktown Base for all of four hours before it went straight to Hell, they just didn’t realize it at the time.  It started, innocently enough, with a distress call: “We were on a science mission inside the nebula…”
Relationships: James T. Kirk/Leonard "Bones" McCoy, Philip Boyce/Christopher Pike
Series: Threads [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1577797
Comments: 37
Kudos: 158





	1. Chapter 1

“What a damned monstrosity!” Christopher Pike looked over sharply from where he was leaning against the bridge railing, lip curling in a smile he couldn’t quite hide as Leonard continued, “Couldn’t we just rent some space on a planet somewhere?”

“Showing geographical favoritism among inducted Federation worlds could cause diplomatic tension.”

Instead of defusing the situation, the Vulcan’s words only seemed to wind the doctor up more. “Oh, you don't think that looks tense?” He thrust a hand at the view screen, accusingly, “Looks like a damn snow globe in space, just waiting to break.”

Fortunately, Kirk’s comment was louder than Chris’ snort: “That's the spirit, Bones.” 

Six weeks, including a less than successful diplomatic stop on Teenax, and he still couldn’t quite believe this world he’d stumbled into. While Chris ached for the chair sometimes, he wouldn’t trade anything for being able to do this: standing on the bridge and watching Jim command like he’d been born for it. It was too easy, sometimes; too tempting to forget it wasn’t his Jamie.

They’d shared a belated birthday drink, Leonard, Jim and Chris, once the younger man had recovered from their run-in with the Perxes. Thirty years old… one more than George Kirk ever got. Leonard had lifted whisky from someone’s locker and they’d put a privacy lock on the room so it was just the three of them. They’d toasted Jim and George and continued telling the stories that they’d started in a cave the week before. It was a birthday that had been a long time coming; that he’d already mourned once and was ready to make the most of this second chance. It had been a companionable few hours, dominated by an easy warmth between the two younger men and a familiarity with Chris that he tried not to let himself question. He’d gone back to his guest quarters at 0100 and sobbed like a baby for his Jamie.

Shaking himself out of his thoughts he found that the helmsman, Sulu, was taking them inside the sphere. It was a reprovisioning stop: shore leave was to start as soon as they docked so none of the usual formalities were in order. They could disembark directly in their duty uniforms; meetings about his interim vice-admiral position weren’t formally slated to start for over twenty-four hours. 

Docking clamps engaged and Jim smiled, turning to address the bridge crew. “Sulu, lock the conn. Right, everyone: stand down and disembark at your leisure. We’ll reconvene for a senior staff briefing tomorrow at 1100.” There were murmurs of assent and an excited hum of activity.

“You ready?”

Chris tore his gaze away from Jim, surprised to find that Leonard had appeared at his side. There was empathy in the younger man’s eyes, even as his gaze flicked to Jim and then back again. He didn’t know how to begin to answer that: it was Phil, of course he was ready. But this Phil wasn’t _his_ Phil, no matter how easily he wore the face of his longest friend. They’d talked every few days over the past weeks; since the invitation to meet at Yorktown had been so readily accepted. If anything, Phil had been so patient: listening to his uncertainty about this new future; about how to be with Jim. That Phil was a widower and Chris was wearing the face of his husband hung awkwardly between them, as if they’d set it aside until they could meet in person.

He hadn’t embraced Jim since the first day in the transporter room; since he’d realized the younger man wasn’t _Jamie_. There had been pats on the shoulder and claps on the back and even some hand-holding while the younger man was unconscious in medbay, but he’d carefully kept his fatherly hands to himself, no matter how much they’d itched to give Jim a quick hug when he’d appeared torn and bloodied after Teenax.

He had no idea what would happen when he found himself in front of Phil.

“Admiral?” They were Jim and Len and Chris behind closed doors, but on the bridge McCoy was professional, even in a conversation conducted in an undertone. “He’s meeting you there?”

“Yes,” Christ faltered, “I mean, I got a message that he arrived yesterday…” The comm had been silent all morning, but he had to admit he hadn’t reached out either. McCoy’s hand gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze and it was enough to set him in motion: casting a grateful glance at the doctor then squaring his shoulders and making his way to the lift. As the doors closed, Jim glanced over from the captain’s chair and caught his eye. It was an expression he’d only seen once or twice before on his son— a soft concern that made his stomach twist.

The knots only grew as he made his way down to his guest quarters, recognizing the stalling tactic even as his feet continued on the path. Smoothing his hair in the mirror, Chris caught himself wondering what Phil would make of him. The brace he could never quite forget pressed into his thigh and he was reminded of what McCoy had said: that the other Christopher had recovered enough to walk easily with a cane. By comparison, he was ancient. Propped up by technology with streaks of white that had crept into his hair after Jamie died.

There was nothing for it. Pushing back from the sink, he straightened his uniform and made for the door, throat inexplicably tightening with every step that took him closer to the airlock. Chris wasn’t sure he breathed on his way through the tunnel, buoyed along by excited young crewmen. The station was crowded and he caught himself scanning the sea of heads, hand clutching his comm as he contemplated opening the device and seeing if he should go somewhere in particular. The crowd parted momentarily, and _there_ , next to a young man with a small girl: Phil.

It was an almost out of body experience as his feet carried him forward. Stopping a foot apart, Chris stilled. He didn’t know what the other man would make of him, but as he cast his own eyes over all he could see was his Phil. He didn’t know who moved first, but the result was that they crashed together into a tight hug.

God, it felt good. Tightening his arms, he pressed his chin into Phil’s shoulder. It was too much; too public. He felt Phil shudder, a full-body torque of emotion and damn they had to get out of here. “Come on,” pulling back, Chris managed something resembling a smile, “let’s go somewhere quiet.”

He’d been assigned temporary housing in ‘fleet officers quarters nearby, so Chris simply slung an arm around Phil’s shoulders and started to steer. As they turned, he caught sight of Leonard standing by the airlock, arms crossed over his chest as he watched them closely.

The body against his side was familiar, almost surprisingly so, as if Chris hadn’t realized he knew his friend so well. Phil was shaking under his arm as if he was barely keeping his composure as they made their way through the corridors. Fortunately, no one was paying them close attention; it wouldn’t be Chris’ first choice for running into his future subordinates. It wasn’t long before his allotted billet appeared and they quickly stumbled through the doorway, Chris guiding Phil to sit on a small sofa in the living room, settling into a chair opposite.

Phil took a deep tremulous breath, eyes slightly too-bright in the light as he said, “Sorry.”

As if there was something to forgive, “Phil—”

Swallowing convulsively to keep emotions under control, Phil waved a hand between them to forestall whatever half-baked comment was on Chris’ lips. “I hadn’t realized I’d be affected like that. Thought it might have been long enough. I hope no one saw you.”

“I think we’re in the clear,” he’d said those words to Phil before, countless times. They’d had enough scrapes at the academy and in their early missions. From the little jerk this Phil gave they were familiar to him as well. Married for ten years; they must have had some stories to tell. Chris suddenly found himself wanting to know those stories. To do something to wipe that crease of painful emotion off Phil’s forehead.

Eventually, Phil seemed to gather himself enough to ask, “How are you?”

Something tugged in Chris’ own chest, because to ask that, now, was just so _Phil_. They’d settled into a rhythm, of sorts, on the Enterprise. He’d socialized with the crew he’d come to know so well in his own reality, getting to know McCoy over no small amount of whiskey. It had helped; as had spending time with Jim, after the mess with the Al’tair. “Getting there.” It was Phil, so he added, “Still feel like an imposter sometimes, or like it all has to be a nightmare of some kind.” The other man’s wedding ring caught the light and Chris couldn’t help but stare. His Phil had never seemed interested in that kind of commitment with anyone. The last six weeks had been a long time; enough for Chris to start wondering what he might have missed.

Catching the gaze, Phil’s fingers went automatically to his hand, turning the polished gold as he softly said, “I buried him with his ring.” _I couldn’t take it off_.

It had been four years; Chris couldn’t help but wonder, “Have you,” he licked his lips, somehow embarrassed by the question, “you know—”

“Been seeing anyone?” The tilt of Phil’s eyebrow was heartbreakingly familiar, “No. You were it for me, Christopher Pike.”

Chris shifted in his chair, uncomfortably. He’d never been such a singular focus for another person; not another adult anyway. Jamie… that was different. The coffee table was almost like a no-man’s land between them. It had been easy enough on their comm chats to avoid potential emotional minefields. Here, face to face, everything they hadn’t been talking about was suddenly more salient. It was nonetheless surprising when without any further warning Phil’s face just crumpled. Chris felt what might have been panic rising in his throat, because he’d seen the other man cry precisely two-point-five times in his life:

One: when Phil’s mother died, unexpectedly, during their first tour on the Aldrin.

Two: when Jamie’s adoption was finalized, and the kid had managed to doggedly climb out of his wheelchair to give them a hug in front of the judge.

The point-five was the fact that Chris was pretty sure there had been a tear in Phil’s eye as he said goodbye before shipping out on the Aldrin’s second tour, leaving Chris and Jamie on Earth.   
Or maybe that was just projecting.

Wetly, Phil gasped, “I’m so sorry— I promised Pip I wouldn’t do this.”

“Pip?” Chris’ voice came out soft, almost lost in his surprise. They’d been friends since the academy— the only one, including Phil, who could drink Chris under the table. Her career had gone from strength to strength, until—

“Don’t you kno—” it must have been plain on Chris’ face, because Phil changed what he was saying, “Did something happen?”

Something that was loss intermingling with fluttering hope stirred in Chris’ chest as he explained, “Pip died a few years ago; an incident with the Klingons. She was commanding the Shenzhou.”

Mouth turning down in compassion, Phil replied, “She’s still captain of the Shenzhou; holding down the Laurentian frontier.” He swiped at his eyes, then rubbed his fingers on his knees. “They’re running silent this month, but she’s missed you something terrible. You’re going to be bombarded when they regain regular comms traffic.”

_Pip_. Warmth curled in Chris’ belly; damn, he’d missed her. Phil, though, just looked miserable. Chris was out of his chair before he could really think, around the coffee table and gathering the other man to him. 

A broad hand fisted in the front of his uniform and Chris kept still as the other man just _hung on_ , back shuddering in a way that suggested he might be crying, silently. It’s Phil, he reminded himself, no matter how weird the circumstances. That was enough to have Chris bringing his arms up, hugging back with a fervor that surprised himself. The bulk of the other man was unfamiliar, but Phil seemed to know just how the geometries of their bodies fit together.

A little pang of guilt shot through Chris with the realization that it felt _good_. He didn’t know how long they stayed like that. Phil seemed loathe to move away, so Chris just stayed. And waited. It must have been a while, because his thoughts started to wander: to the last six weeks, to Jamie, _Phil_ — his Phil, to this new posting on the very edge of known space. By the time Chris was forced to admit he was feeling vaguely hungry, the sudden chirp of the comm made him jump.

“Admiral Pike, this is Yorktown command.” 

Phil stiffened, pulling back so Chris could speak without sounding muffled. “Go ahead.”

“We have an IFF alert on an incoming vessel, unidentified, non-Federation. Commodore Paris has requested your presence.”

It was Phil who gave a small smile, clapping a hand on Chris’ shoulder as he said, “Sounds like duty calls. Suit up.”

“Phil—”

“We’ll talk later.” Phil was still smiling, but his tone was firm as he moved to stand. “Just comm me.”

Chris only spared enough time to straighten his uniform before rushing out the door.

Paris was there already, staring intently at an alien of a species Chris didn’t recognize. The universal translation unit was powered up, struggling to get up to speed with the rapid vocalizations.

“Is this working?”

The doors opened as the translator kicked in; Chris moved to one side, making room for Jim as he crossed his arms. The simultaneous translation added an ethereal quality to the speech sounds. Out of the corner of his eye, Chris could see Jim frowning slightly as he listened, “We were on a science mission inside the nebula. Our ship has suffered a critical malfunction. I took an escape pod, before the ship crash landed on a nearby planet. We need a ship capable of navigating the nebula. You must have someone who can help us.”

Paris indicated a display, explaining, “We tracked her stranded ship to a sector of uncharted nebula. Here: 210, mark 14.”

Chris raised an eyebrow, “Long range scan?”

“No data. The Nebula is too dense. It's uncharted space.”

The Enterprise does have the best navigation system in the fleet.” Jim’s gaze slid from Paris to Chris, as he asserted, “She could handle it.”

“The only ship here with more advanced technology is still under construction.” The commodore’s eyes were warm as she continued, “But it’s not just the ship we are sending.”

Jim interpreted it as an order, confirming as he turned on his heel, “I’m gathering the crew.”

Chris lingered, watching the alien closely as an ensign helped her out of the booth. 

“I suppose we could start that handover briefing now.” Chris only knew Paris by reputation, but he turned to find her eyes were kind. Tilting her head towards the data-flooded screens, she added, “It could take them five hours to get there; if you’ve been studying the station schematics and procedures we could have command codes transferred over by the time they get back.”

Chris had been studying those every day for _weeks_. From the look on her face, she’d probably guessed. Smiling in return, he agreed, “Let’s get to work.”


	2. Chapter 2

The hours passed quickly at first: five stretching into eight. They took a short break for lunch, then ordered in dinner so they wouldn’t have to pause. Ten hours and still no sign of Enterprise’s return. It didn’t mean anything, really, the nebula was an unknown quality, as was the evacuation that would be required. Twenty-four hours, Chris told himself, would be a reasonable time to expect them back.

One-to-one meetings with all the senior station staff were slated to start early the following day so Chris sent a message to Phil apologizing that he’d worked late with Paris, and suggesting they catch-up the tomorrow. He had a hell of a lot of homework to do before first impressions with his staff.

The message back from Phil was friendly enough; clearly understanding. Chris pushed it all to the back of his mind and called up the station schematics again in detail, drilling himself on everything Paris had highlighted.

The alarm came early the next morning; Chris vacillated over sending a comm to Phil as he bolted down a coffee. Just when he decided that, yes, he really needed to send a message, any message, Chris’ comm buzzed:

_Knock ‘em dead._

It brought an immediate smile to his lips. While Chris’ general hand-to-hand was stronger, Phil had always been the better boxer. Thumbing open the keypad, he messaged back,

 _Needed that._  
_Thank you._  
Then before he lost his nerve, _What time can you get away for dinner?_

 _Seven._  
A pause, then, _Thai?_

It had been their go-to eating out food since the academy: something they both loved but were terrible at cooking. Chris remembered when Phil had declared Jamie ready to try a more standard diet; they’d ordered from the best Thai restaurant in San Francisco as a surprise, and the kid had just _lit up_ with excitement that his life was finally getting back to normal. In that moment, Chris realized it had been years since he’d sat down to Thai with Phil. Time to change that. _Thai sounds wonderful_ Smile still on his lips, he added, _Have a good day_.

 _You too_. 

Feeling lighter, Chris closed his comm and squared his shoulders; ready to face meeting his new crew. 

************

Commander Finnegan was both competent and easygoing; an hour into meeting him and Chris felt himself starting to relax into the new posting. So very different from a starship; the sheer number of people looking up to him was staggering, but the more people he met and the more data was presented, the stronger the feeling of _you’ve got this_. It felt good to have real responsibility again. Being driven by revenge had a hollow quality; he wasn’t going to miss it.

The twenty-four hour mark passed without Chris even realizing it; he was so caught up in meetings. Thirty hours since the Enterprise had departed on its rescue mission and the muted hum of activity had become palpable: proximity sensors being checked more frequently than strictly required, long range-scans directed towards the nebula to little effect.

The last scheduled meeting wrapped up and Chris checked the time: an hour until he was supposed to meet Phil for dinner. Plenty of time to swing back by the command center and then get changed into civvies. He was chatting with Finnegan, nothing of consequence beyond standard shop-talk, when the relative silence was broken by an urgent report, “IFF alert on incoming vessels.” Chris spun around as the lieutenant continued, “No reply to all-frequency ID request.”

Finnegan jabbed at something on his console and ordered, “Visual.”

At a distance, it looked like a cloud, then a flock of birds, rapidly approaching their perimeter satellites. A moment and then they were _cutting through_ the perimeter, the automated defenses utterly ineffective at shooting them down.

The order left Chris’ lips without conscious thought: “Red alert!” 

Immediately, Finnegan echoed, “Red alert!”

A glance and their eyes met; Finnegan tilted his head and Chris realized the other man was ceding command. Straightening, he started barking orders, “Fire everything we’ve got from the outer surface. Evacuate public areas— get everyone to their designated safety zones. Broadcast distress signals— all frequencies.”

A structural integrity warning flashed, the station schematics highlighting a main access portal. Something clenched tightly in Chris’ gut with the realization that they were trying to break inside the station; so many it didn’t matter that tens, hundreds, maybe even thousands were just dashing themselves to pieces as they chipped away at the doors.

“Sixty seconds from breaking through!”

Chris’ knuckles whitened as he gripped the console, furious at the station’s inability to resist the assault.

The lieutenant manning perimeter control suddenly announced, “There’s another vessel approaching— something larger!” 

_Jim_. Chris felt a rush of adrenaline as he demanded, “The Enterprise?”

Rising hope was immediately dashed by the response, “No. Unidentified, but they’re attacking the swarm—” It only took a moment of looking at the readouts to confirm, “It’s largely ineffective.”

Chris pivoted back to the displays, trying to understand what was happening as he ordered, “Get it on screen!” At first, it didn’t make sense; then it became clear the swarm of ships was doubling back, forming a wave… “They’re going to attack that vessel.”

A lieutenant’s head snapped up from the comm system, brow furrowing in confusion as he reported, “I’m picking up a signal.”

Waving a hand, Chris indicated, “Put it on.” 

Thumping. _Shouting_. As the lyrics started Chris felt a relief so visceral he had to steady himself against the console because he _knew_ this music. He’d heard it years ago, bleeding around the edges of his teenage son’s bedroom door. Pounding out of his ground flitter after the kid had earned his driver’s license. The rhythm of Jamie psyching himself up for sparring in the gym.

“We’re receiving a transmission— it’s a Starfleet identifier!” 

As Chris watched, a spark of fire erupted in the wave, growing along the curl of the leading edge. Hope twisted in his belly, thrilling in its intensity: _They’re disrupting the swarm_. The music; it had to be. “Find out how they’re doing that!”

A woman he’d vaguely met the day before swept into the command center, announcing, “Sir, we now have the disruption frequency.”

“Broadcast!” Chris had never been so fond of classical music before in his life. He had to choke back a wholly inappropriate laugh at the thought of it. “Broadcast, now!” The wave erupted in explosions as the small vessels collided and veered off course.

“Three smaller vessels just broke through!”

As Chris watched a fourth followed, then the starship. _Fuck_. First fucking day and he’d broken the goddamn station. It was brand new, too.

“They’re approaching headquarters.”

“Clear the central plaza!” The screens cut to display a station schematic with the intruding ships marked in red, coupled with external security feeds of the central plaza. A moment stretched; from the overhead cameras the people fleeing the plaza looked like scattering insects. The surprise as the starship reared up out of the lake was enough to make Chris take an involuntary step back; when three of the alien ships impacted with its underside he gripped the edge of the console and tried not to exclaim, _Yes!_.

Three seconds of stunned silence filled the control room, only broken when Chris ordered, “Get response teams down there.” The room lurched into motion again, a whirl of activity and information streaming across the displays.

“We’re getting a request to lock-down the ship and issue an intruder alert.”

“Do it.” Chris gripped the console again, silently imploring, _Come on, Jim. Hail us. Come on_. The ship was Jim— it had to be. He felt it in his bones… but he just wanted that hail.

“We’re getting a request to temporarily shut down the atmospheric regulator at the central core.”

 _Dammit,_ Chris growled internally, Jim if this is you: fucking tell me, son.

The lieutenant at the environmental controls looked up with a panicked expression on his face, “It doesn’t work like that— we can’t just shut it down.”

“Let me see—” Chris leaned over the console, inputting his own command codes to no avail. _SYSTEM LOCKED_ flashed across the screen when he tried a shutdown cycle. It looked like the safety subroutines wanted to run a twenty-four hour cycle to ensure a safe evacuation of the station.

“Look, this thing is impossible to shut down!”

Chris turned to find Finnegan practically jogging alongside Montgomery Scott and an unknown alien. 

Scott slid into the central engineering console like he’d been there all his life. “Aye, well,” he cracked his knuckles, “We’ll see about that.”

A voice crackled over the comm: “Mister Scott, why is that thing still on?”

 _Jim_. 

“We’re working on it, sir, but as you can imagine there’s a lot of safety protocols surrounding the thing that, you know, keeps everybody alive.

The younger man was breathing hard, as if Jim might be running as he replied, “Figure something out!”

“Be careful, captain! Gravity’s gonna get a bit screwy the closer you get to the center.” The engineer closed the comm channel without waiting for a reply and turned back to Finnegan, “Maybe we should scan the operational schematics see if there’s a back door.”

“Right.”

“Lassie, I’m gonna need your eyes.”

Aware he couldn’t help directly, Chris called up the security feeds of the central core. A man appeared— presumably the intruder— wearing a ‘fleet uniform. He was huge; powerfully built and purposeful as he climbed into the ventilation system.

The hatch burst open and Jim emerged, shooting the first man in the back. The shot appeared to stun, but not properly incapacitate his adversary.

Chris drank in the sight of Jim, apparently relatively unharmed, even as the first man stumbled, holding something up between them with an outstretched arm. A weapon of some sort? They were speaking to each other, but the video feed didn’t include sound. As he spoke, then yelled, the man in ‘fleet gold seemed to regain his strength. Gesturing and tearing at the front of his uniform in a manner that was unsettling to watch.

 _Shoot him!_ Chris implored, wordlessly, _Shoot him, son._ There had to be a reason why Jim hesitated. Something to do with the weapon, perhaps. 

Abruptly, the man lashed out with a kick that caught Jim’s hand, knocking the phaser away and giving him a few seconds to scramble up the access hatch. The younger man followed, tackling in a way that had them flying to the roof of the compartment. Worry gnawed at his stomach and clawed its way up Chris’ throat as increasingly vicious hand-to-hand led to them breaking through the wall and falling to the roof of another building.

For a minute, it looked like it might be over. Jim drew himself up, confident as he called out to the other man. Then the first launched himself off the building in a way that made Chris stifle a gasp. 

“Scotty!”

“Captain, he’s using the gravitational slipstream to carry him back to the center.”

Heart somewhere in the general vicinity of his throat, Chris watched as Jim leapt off the building to follow. The impact looked like it hurt, but Jim somehow clung on and crawled back towards the central access point.

“The weapon is in the chamber. Captain, we have to stop the processor now or everything breathing in Yorktown is dead!”

The hand-to-hand was even more vicious than before: punching, throttling, kicking, until Jim seemed to have the upper hand and scrambled after the weapon.

“Scotty!”

“Captain, I think we can redirect it. There's a sealed construction hatch that will let you vent the weapon into space. Now we can override the locks, but you have to activate the hatch.”

Hauling himself into the chamber, narrowly dodging the blooming nexus of certain death in the middle, Jim asked, “Just press a button?”

“It's not a button, sir. It's a single lever under a white panel.”

“Got it.”

“And there are four of them.” Chris winced. “Once you’ve primed the hatch you’ll have to exit the chamber immediately. If the hatch is open when the processor is cycled, and you are in it, you are going to get sucked into a space.”

“What happens if the hatch isn't open?”

“You too get sucked into a big fan with the weapon and we all die.”

One switch. Two. The third...

Leonard’s voice crackled over the comm, as if he’d been listening the whole time but just decided he couldn’t hold his tongue. “Damn it, Jim, you won't make it out in time.”

The fourth—

The fourth switch stuck.

A warning klaxon was audible over the open comm and the alien woman sighed in dismay and anxiety, “The vent! Get out of there, James T.”

“Scotty! The last hatch won’t open!” Jim was straining, yanking, “Scotty!”

“Work fast, Captain. Time is running out.”

“Look out!” Chris’ exclamation wasn’t heard as the man in gold reared up behind Jim, grabbing a shard and attempting to stab the younger man.

Jim kicked out, wildly, but the blow landed and the other man was knocked back into the seething mass in the center of the chamber. It seemed to swarm over him like something alive and clearly incapacitating. The chamber abruptly opened and he shot out towards the fan, still enveloped in the mass, Jim dangling from the final switch and swatting at it wildly.

The automated voice was far too calm for the moment as it announced, “ _Manual override engaged_.”

The first man and the weapon were sucked through the construction hatch and out into space.

Chris’ fists were so tightly clenched his fingernails cut into his palm as he watched. _Hang on. Hang on. Hang on_.

Jim lost his grip and went hurtling after the other man. 

Chris didn’t breathe at all for the few seconds it took before a small ship swooped into view, blocking Jim’s fall. Leonard’s whoop had Chris sagging back against the console, all-consuming relief making him gasp out a ragged breath. The noise was masked by Scott leaping to his feet and punching the air as he yelled in delight, something clearly triumphant but utterly incomprehensible escaping the engineer’s lips.

Reminding himself his work wasn’t done, Chris turned back to the readouts of station structural integrity and disaster response, burying his worry and elation in methodically doing his job. It was two hours before he could get away. Two hours of sending preliminary reports to HQ, coordinating cleanup efforts, reviewing structural integrity data and scrambling an engineering corps; through it all, he ruthlessly suppressed the urge to excuse himself and run down to the central hospital. It was almost ten o’clock by the time he surfaced with the guilty realization that he’d missed dinner with Phil.

Finnegan must have caught the expression on his face, because the commander straightened and offered, “I think we’ve done all we can here, sir. Commander Shan’te is ready as our relief.

Chris nodded and thanked him; commended everyone on their hard work, then took his leave. His comm was burning a hole in his pocket, but Chris quickly checked station records and made his way to the central medical facility. He was waved through, which was probably a violation of some sort of policy, but command stripes tended to open a lot of doors. 

It was late enough at night that the VIP ward was quiet. Pushing open a door made something seize tightly in his chest that felt a lot like, _That’s my boy_.

Kirk was sitting on the edge of a biobed, legs dangling and head hanging so that his chin almost touched his chest. He looked exhausted. He looked _sore_.

It took a moment for Jim to raise his head at the intrusion into his private room, and he moved awkwardly, as if his neck was stiff and bothering him.

“Where’s Leonard?” Chris hadn’t expected him to find Jim alone.

“He had to look after Spock.” Jim’s voice was raspy and his expression a little bit lost, as if deep in the grip of an adrenaline crash. “Bones said everything’ll be fine, but they had to go into surgery.”

Mindful of the osteoregenerator still strapped to the kid’s hand where he must have busted some knuckles fighting, Chris moved to lean against the side of the biobed and slung an arm lightly around the other man’s shoulders.

Jim took a shaky breath, then offered, “I lost the Enterprise. She’s gone.” Chris had guessed as much, but it still made something tighten in his chest to hear it confirmed. “I was the last off— she’d been cut in half by the swarm. The saucer was descending through the atmosphere. There was a moment when the mountain ranges became clear; before I launched my Kelvin pod—”

It was a risk, but Chris couldn’t resist tightening his grip and Jim only hesitated for a moment before leaning into the contact. After a long moment, he offered, “I’m sorry.” Chris didn’t say what for, but Jim seemed to understand because he let out a long sigh and nodded. The crewmen who had died. The loss of the Enterprise. The whole damn mess. 

“Come on,” Chris slid off the bed, ignoring the ache in his bad leg from being on his feet for so long, “Let’s get you fixed up.” Jim looked suddenly anxious and ready to object, but Chris forestalled it with a hand on the younger man’s arm as he reached over and snagged a scanner and a dermal regenerator off the bedside table.

Jim’s brow furrowed in confusion as Chris began to pass the scanner over him, “What’re you—”

Chris clicked his tongue and gently ordered, “Hold still.” Taking Jim carefully by the chin, he explained, “I was the father of a teenage James Tiberius Kirk; you’d better believe I learned a thing or two about regening that face of yours.”

The thought was enough to make the younger man crack a slightly painful smile. There was nothing Chris could do about the deeper bruising around the orbital fracture, but after a few careful passes the worst of the abrasions were healed. He dropped his hand to Jim’s shoulder, giving a reassuring squeeze and testing the tension in the muscles at the same time.

The door opened and they both looked up to find Phil leaning into the room, a tired and slightly crooked smile on his face as he asked, “Am I interrupting?”

Jim seemed to brighten and Chris realized there were questions he probably should have asked about how well they knew each other. It occurred to him that this Chris’ decision to wait to reveal their connection would have prevented Phil from knowing Jim as well. In his own timeline Jamie had been devoted to his Uncle Phil; Chris could remember the early days, after Tarsus, when the Aldrin was still en route to Earth just before their timelines diverged. He’d spent most of the trip by Jamie’s bedside. Sometimes even in the kid’s bed, trying to get him to eat. Phil had been at the periphery the whole time. Quietly supportive. Encouraging Chris with thoughtful words and a hand on his shoulder when Jamie would drift off into fretful sleep. 

It was Jim who answered with a welcoming wave of his hand, “Not all, Phil. It’s so good to see you.” 

Phil set a large bag on the counter and then quickly drew the younger man into a one-armed hug, gripping Chris’ shoulder with his free hand as he did so. 

Chris sensed Jim relax at the reassuring embrace, and was unsurprised to find he was feeling a little better himself. When Phil stepped back he fixed both men with an assessing gaze, announcing, “You look about ready to drop. And I can see Chris has been practicing medicine without a license.”

Shamefaced, Chris handed over the regenerator even as he retorted, “To be fair, you were the one who taught me to use it.”

Gently turning Jim’s face for a better look, Phil grinned fondly in a manner that suggested he might have forgotten which Chris he was talking with, “Looks like I did a good job.” He waved the scanner over the younger man’s torso. “Looks like you had some soft tissue damage and a kidney contusion that they took care of already. We’ll let that eye finish off naturally, and your hand should be feeling better now.”

Jim flexed his fingers and nodded in agreement.

Satisfied, Phil snapped the scanner closed. “Good.” He stepped back to collect the bag from inside the door. “I figured neither of you had stopped to eat so I brought dinner for while we wait.” As if on cue, Jim’s stomach rumbled and Phil looked pleased to be proved correct. He set about pulling containers and utensils out of the bag, handing one over to Jim with a reassuring, “No shrimp.”

They ate perched on the furniture in the room, most of the conversation about little of consequence beyond relief that they had all got through this near-catastrophe. Jim explained the almost unbelievable story of the alien Chris had met earlier, Jaylah, wondering what she would want to do with her newfound freedom.

The food was good. _Great_ , even. Phil had brought all of Chris’ favorites, and from the look of it Jim’s as well. 

They ate so quickly the rush of exhaustion caught him by surprise. Stifling a yawn, he caught a knowing smile out of the corner of his eye and then Phil tilted his head towards the biobed. Jim was still perched on the edge of the bed, but appeared to be on the verge of falling asleep over the remains of his dinner. 

Setting down his own container, Chris carefully removed Jim’s dish from the younger man’s hands. It nonetheless made Jim jump, blinking suddenly and nearly tipping off the edge of the bed. “Easy, Jim.” Chris raised the head of the bed so it was at an incline rather than flat. “You’re dead on your feet. Come on, swing your legs up and sit back.”

“But—”

Phil set down his own empty container, adding, “We’ll stay, Jim, and keep talking, but if you do drift off we don’t want you tumbling off the bed. Leonard would kill us.”

“He wouldn’t kill you,” Jim’s words were starting to slur with exhaustion, “He’d do that thing with his eyebrow, but he wouldn’t kill you.”

Phil chuckled, obviously more familiar with what Jim was describing. “Well in any case, I want to avoid it.”

It was enough to coax Jim to obey and Chris helped him recline against the head of the bed before settling back into his own chair. Retrieving his noodles, he took another bite as Phil picked up the conversation: offering that he’d used his position as surgeon general to access the injury reports and confirm that all there hadn’t been any fatalities on Yorktown and all Jim’s surviving crewmen were on the mend, then carrying on to general things of little consequence. Chris caught Jim’s blinks growing longer, and would have grinned if not for the fact that he could feel himself falling asleep over his own dinner.

It was fortunately not too long before the door opened again and Leonard leaned into the room, lines of stress on his face softening when he saw the three of them and the remains of dinner. The doctor’s hair was in disarray and there was a bruised abrasion on one cheek and a small cut over his eyebrow, but he spared a moment to greet Phil warmly before moving to Jim’s side with a soft, “Come on, sleeping beauty.”

“Bones?”

“Yeah,” Leonard ran a hand down Jim’s arm, gently coaxing him to sit up and slide off the bed, “Let’s get you to quarters and a real bed.”

Only marginally more awake, Jim hummed an agreement as he stood and asked, “Spock okay?”

“He’ll be his usual self by the morning— I’m just keeping him overnight for observation.” Leonard slung an arm around Jim’s shoulders and gave the older men an appreciative smile as he announced, “I’m putting the Enterprise crew on stand-down for forty-eight hours.”

The easy intimacy between the two younger men made Chris’ stomach twist with a _want_ he hadn’t felt in years. No one else seemed to notice. Jim visible leaned into Leonard’s side and let himself be led towards the door, offering a tired thanks on the way out.

Left alone, he took a few more bites of his dinner before he was caught off guard by Phil snorting. Glancing up, he found the other man with his arms crossed but expression fond as he said, “You’re about to fall asleep yourself. Let’s get you home.”

Unable to argue, because bed sounded all kinds of wonderful, Chris dropped his near-empty container into the recycler and hauled himself, painfully to his feet. He was stiff all over after the long day; weak leg aching where the brace was a little too tight after a long day. 

Phil deposited his own trash, then led the way back through Yorktown’s corridors to a transport point that beamed them directly to station officers’ housing. Shoulders brushing, they made their way to Chris’ apartment where Phil followed him inside without comment.

Vision almost swimming with tiredness in the aftermath of the adrenaline, Chris tried to remember his manners and asked, “Do you want some tea, or—”

“I’m fine.” Phil’s head was cocked to one side; expression unreadable as he said, “Come here, Chris.”

A hand grabbed his own, drawing him through the living room; Chris blearily wondered how Phil knew the way to the bedroom before realizing VIP guest housing probably had the same layout to it. Stopping by the side of the bed, Phil gently tugged off Chris’ jacket and draped it over the back of a chair. He crouched to help Chris pull off his boots, then, with a look that said _trust me_ , unbuttoned Chris’ trousers and pushed them down to reveal the brace.

Chris held himself still as Phil examined the brace, first visually, then tentatively reaching out as if testing the carbon polymer. It seemed to eventually pass muster as Phil moved from inspecting to carefully removing the device and setting it aside, supporting Chris’ weight as he did so. There was nothing sexual in Phil’s touch, but there wasn’t clinical detachment either as he gently lowered Chris onto the bed. 

A grunt escaped Chris’ lips as his hip throbbed in protest at the movement and Phil murmured a hushing noise, gently rolling Chris onto his side and massaging the sore muscles.

It felt like heaven. Phil’s hands seemed practiced at gently easing the pain. The other man’s eyes were soft, but there was the faintest trace of a frown on his forehead as well.

It was confusing as hell.

Melting into the mattress, it must have been the losing fight against exhaustion that had him slur out, “Y’can stay over. If you want.”

A blanket was tugged up over him in response, soft words in the near darkness of the room an encouraging, “Get some sleep, Chris.”


	3. Chapter 3

Chris’ alarm went off at 0730 and he rolled over, tiredly, to an ache in his leg and gritty feeling in his eyes. It took three seconds for the memories of the day before to slam into him and he sat up with a gasp, hip throbbing at the sudden movement. The bedroom was empty; his own jacket draped over the back of a chair and brace propped against the nightstand the only sign Phil had been there. Chris let the memories and emotions of the day before wash over him: taking stock. And fuck was there a lot to think about.

Pushing aside everything that wasn’t strictly duty related, Chris set to work methodically strapping on the brace and dressing in his uniform. Routine brought some semblance of normalcy, that was broken when he purposefully strode out of the bedroom to find Phil in his kitchen, poking at something on the stove. There were blankets piled on the couch that suggested the other man had stayed over, and he was wearing a t-shirt that Chris recognized as his own.

Chris must have made a noise of surprise, because Phil looked up and smiled as he offered, “I made that egg thing you like.” A moment as they regarded each other across the living space, because Chris had no clue what the egg thing was, then Phil set down the spatula, smile inexplicably growing as he asked, “You don’t know what day it is, do you?”

Day? What day? Chris frowned, thinking, but coming up blank.

Phil tipped the contents of the frying pan onto two plates, carrying them over to the dining table (and, oh, that _did_ smell good) before coming over to pull Chris into a loose, one-armed hug with a soft, “Happy birthday.”

It was, too. He’d completely forgotten. Not felt much like celebrating for several years, really. Not since Jimmy. Phil pulled back before Chris could return the gesture, ushering him over to the table.

Sitting Chris found himself presented with a mug of coffee, fixed just the way he liked it, and a steaming frittata that smelled like pure heaven on a plate. Phil watched closely as he took a bite, a knowing curl to his lip when Chris made an involuntary noise of pleasure in the back of his throat. The doctor’s expression was smug over the rim of his mug as Chris systematically demolished breakfast.

Scraping his plate with his fork, Chris glanced at the chronometer and found he had about twenty minutes until he had to get to the central command station. Sitting back in his chair, he regarded Phil for a moment before half asking and half asserting, “You stayed over last night.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time I crashed on your couch. Wanted to make sure I got an early start on breakfast before you were up.”

Waving his fork at the slightly ratty t-shirt with the Rigel Cup crest emblazoned on it, Chris offered, “That looks familiar.”

“I brought a few of your things out— stuff from before… you know.” Before the timelines diverged. 

It piqued Chris’ interest. He’d assumed everything he had was long gone. “Really?”

Phil retrieved a storage box from beside the sofa, setting it on the table and opening the lid as he explained, “I gave away some things; after. There’s more in a storage locker back on Earth, and knick-knacks and things around the house, but some of this I kept closer.”

One hand clutching a faded baseball cap that he recognized from a summer survival training session where he’d broken the cadet record for orienteering, Chris looked up and asked, “We had a house?”

“We still do.” Phil shrugged, self-consciously, “It’s too big for me, really, but I couldn’t quite bear to sell it.” Sensing Chris’ curiosity he offered, “It’s in Shelter Cove— just far enough out of the city to leave work behind. The house hugs the hillside; from the deck it’s just horizon as far as you can see, but there’s stairs down to the beach. We’ve got a little boathouse— surfboard for you and a kayak for me. In the winter there’s a real fireplace in the living room.”

“Sounds nice.”

Finding his throat suddenly tight, Phil just managed, “We wanted a _home_ , you know, after so long on Starships.” They’d wanted a family, too, but hadn’t managed to get around to it.

Sensing that Phil was a little emotional, Chris turned his attention back to the box and dug through a layer of books. “I had a blanket…”

Phil shook his head. “I gave it to Jim after you died— he remembered it from the Aldrin.” 

Chris felt a pang of loss with the realization it must have been on the Enterprise. Sifting further through the contents his fingertips encountered his grandmother’s curry comb; an old ticket stub faded almost beyond recognition; the Orion coins he remembered well from their first posting. The chrono chimed a warning that he was going to be late if he didn’t go soon and he glanced up to meet Phil’s gaze as he offered a heartfelt, “Thanks.”

Phil nodded; cleared his throat and asked, “Want to grab a drink after your shift?”

_That_ would be something to look forward to at the end of what was likely to be a stressful day. “Please.”

“Good— now go on and fix your space station.”

Chris smiled at that; offered a final thanks on his way out.

Phil barely waited for the door to close behind Chris before settling onto the couch and flipping open his comm. The connection went through quickly, but the reply was muffled. Frowning, he asked, “Leonard?”

There was a scuffling sound, then more clearly, “Phil?”

“It’s Chris’ sixtieth birthday…”

Leonard, bless him, understood immediately. “Do you want Yorktown command, or just Enterprise crew?”

“Let’s keep it in the family for now. Six? I’ve told him we can grab a drink after work.”

“Leave it with me; I’ll comm you the venue.”

“Thanks Leonard.”

“Any time.”

Closing his comm Phil shut his eyes for a moment, feeling lighter than he had for a long time.

************

“Where are we going?” Chris twisted to look at his surroundings for the first time; he’d been so caught up in recounting the day he’d lost track of where Phil was leading them, “I thought we were going to get a drink.”

“Yeah, well,” Phil shrugged with one arm and ushered Chris through the door with the other.

“Happy birthday!” 

Chris stopped inside the door and blinked in surprise, a quick glance at Phil and then a pleased smile grew on his face as Jim stepped forwards and handed him a drink.

Leonard pressed a glass into Phil’s hands, then raised his voice, “Everyone, raise a glass,”

It was Jim who finished the toast, “To Admiral Pike— we’re so glad to get to celebrate with you.”

The statement was layered with meaning, and the small crowd erupted in a heartfelt, “To Admiral Pike!” Music started almost immediately as they all seemed to push forward to pass on well wishes; watching Chris smile, Phil felt a rush of relief that he’d guessed right: this was what they all needed.

Was it ever.

Two hours later and that ensign, Chekov, was chatting-up a lithe alien of unspecified origins, Scott was holding court surrounded by a truly impressive array of empty glasses, Spock and Uhura were softly chatting with Leonard, and Chris…

Chris and Jim were leaning against a standing table with a view of the shipyards, beers in hand.

“You really want to go back out there, son?” The endearment probably slipped out; enough people had been handing the birthday boy drinks on a mostly empty stomach.

Jim just smiled and asserted, “It’s going to be so much fun.”

Leonard appeared with a bottle of whisky and four glasses, pouring a generous measure for each of them. The laughter and conversation in the room behind them was a pleasant backdrop as they clinked glasses in a more private celebration. 

Chris enjoyed the burn of the liquor— McCoy apparently did as well as the noise he made was vaguely sexual. Jim must have caught it as the younger man’s ears pinked and he seemed briefly transfixed by the line of the doctor’s jaw as he swallowed. They looked good in their civvies; relaxed in a way Chris hadn’t really seen when they were on the Enterprise. The clothes must be new, despite how Jim’s leather jacket had gently a worn look to it. Fashion. Jamie had been a touch vain about his clothes as well. Chris always figured it was because he’d gone without for so long as a boy.

He’d eaten a generous slice of cake, but as Chris finished the whisky while they talked he was forced to admit the liquor was hitting him. It seemed to be getting to Jim too— the younger man must be exhausted— as he was visibly leaning into Leonard’s side by the time he’d drained his glass. The party was still going strong, but as usual medical ganged up on command track and as if in a coordinated maneuver Leonard and Phil had ushered Chris and Jim through their goodbyes and out into the plaza before they had time to even consider objecting. It was well after eight, closer to nine, but aside from cake and canapes none of them had eaten much in the way of dinner. 

“Come on,” Leonard slung an arm around Jim’s shoulders. “I left the table set at ours and arranged a delivery order with a steakhouse in the plaza so we could eat in whenever we got home.”

Chris nodded, starting off towards his own quarters when Jim’s hand closed over his wrist and the younger man said, “He set the table for four. You’re welcome to join us, unless you want to be alone.” Phil gave a smile that could only be described as hopeful and Chris had to admit that the thought of dinner with them was highly appealing.

Jim’s quarters were a slightly shrunken version of Chris’, but there was plenty of room. The table wasn’t just set for four— there was a good bottle of red wine waiting as well. Leonard must have done his research on the station intranet because the food was delicious; despite the fact that they’d already spent hours together the conversation continued to flow easily as well. It helped that Jim and Leonard had obviously spent time with Phil prior-to the five year mission, and from some comments it sounded like they kept in touch via comm as well.

Idly chasing the last of his mashed potatoes around his plate, Chris had a sudden sense that _this_ was what the world was supposed to be like in this timeline: Leonard, Jim, Phil and Chris around a dining table. Stealing a glance at Phil, unselfconsciously taking a sip of wine, he couldn’t help but think that this was what Phil deserved. Too bad he had Chris instead of his Christopher. His _husband_.

Chris felt that now-familiar tug of remorse that he hadn’t noticed what had been right under his nose. He could have had Phil, he believed that now; Jamie too. If he just hadn’t been so wrapped up…

A question from Jim snapped Chris out of his melancholy, drawing him back into the conversation. It was well after ten when they finally wrapped up; Jim was still on stand-down, but Chris would be expected in the command center in the morning. Saying their goodnights, Chris accepted a warm hug from both Leonard and Jim before setting off down the corridor. Phil trailed him, not talking but a comforting presence by his side nonetheless. 

Chris wasn’t sure if his quarters were on the way to Phil’s or not, but the other man followed him anyway until they reached his door. “Come in?”

Phil regarded him as if he hadn’t expected the invitation; there was real scrutiny in the other man’s gaze. While they’d kept drinking, Chris had paced himself so that he’d sobered up over dinner and could meet Phil’s gaze directly. Whatever he saw, it was enough to make the doctor acquiesce and nod. 

They stood together, awkwardly, in the front room. The lights from the cityscape beyond the windows cast the room in a soft glow and Chris realized that Phil looked older than he remembered too. The other man’s hair was flecked with gray in a way that some would describe as distinguished, and there were fans of wrinkles around his eyes that were deeper than the laugh lines Chris could recall. He was stepping closer before he realized it, and Phil just _let_ him, as if transfixed.

Chris leaned close, and Phil let him.

He pressed their lips together… and Phil let him.

Stepping back, there was such a mix of emotion on Phil’s face Chris almost started apologizing. But there was also something that might have been hope. Or maybe the other man was just trying not to tear up.

Unsure, but, fuck, it was his _sixtieth birthday_ , he was damn well going to be a little selfish, Chris reached down and gently tugged Phil’s hand. Not moving him, but telegraphing intent.

Phil swallowed, eyes flitting over Chris’ face. After a moment, he nodded.

Not wanting to press, Chris just cocked an eyebrow in response.

Phil managed a smile then, small and a little tremulous, but a real smile that he punctuated with an eye-roll and an encouraging squeeze to Chris’ hand.

It was enough for Chris to lead the way to the bedroom. The light was even lower there; the windows already mostly polarized for sleeping. Standing a foot apart— well, it turned out you never quite outgrew nerves. Not even at sixty.

Chris pulled off his henley and waited for Phil to remove his own button-up shirt. Half undressed, they just stared at each other for a moment until Phil reached out and cupped the side of Chris’ face, offering a soft, “Happy birthday” before claiming another, proper, kiss. They kicked off their shoes and trousers, then removed Chris’ brace and propped it against the wall.

It was Phil who tugged Chris down onto the bed, stretching out and enveloping him in a firm but warm embrace. There was too much emotion; too much history for more.

It was enough nonetheless.

************

Warmth.

That was the first thing Chris registered, followed by the soft pillow under his cheek, then the bulk of another body tucked close behind him. He froze, brain fritzing for a moment as he tried to remember what had happened that led to this unexpected position. Then... Oh. _Phil_.

He took stock for a moment, then on a hunch carefully rolled over. Sure enough: Phil was awake, gaze clear enough to indicate that he’d probably been up for some time.

“Morning.” The soft word from Chris put a little smile on Phil’s lips, so he chased it for a kiss. It was chaste, a brush of lips, but when the other man didn’t pull back he hitched closer and deepened the kiss. Phil made a little noise in his throat that might have been disbelief or want or some other unnamed emotion and pressed closer in response. The dim realization that Phil was a damn good kisser crossed his mind, followed by the surreal realization that this Phil had plenty of practice kissing Christopher Pike. That was strange enough that he pushed the thought aside, focusing instead on the moment.

They exchanged lazy kisses until the chrono chimed with the reality that Chris was supposed to stop by the command center in forty minutes. He pulled back to see Phil lick his lips, looking suddenly apprehensive.

“Are you okay, Phil? This is—” Chris waved a hand between then, unable to put words to the strangeness of the situation.

Phil swallowed, gaze flitting over Chris’ face before he asserted, “You’re not him.” 

Something clenched tightly in Chris chest and he was surprised by how it hurt, this fledgling feeling being tamped down.

“But you are the man I fell in love with.” Confusion must have shown on his face, because Phil softly continued, “I loved you before Tarsus, Chris. I just didn’t realize it at the time.”

Suddenly hopeful, Chris asked, “Really?” His voice sounded thin, not his usual confident self.

Phil seemed to sense the need to reassure, even though he must have been feeling uncertain himself, because he reached out and gently ran his fingertips along the side of Chris’ face as he asserted, “Really.”

“It’s not too—” Eloquence failed him. “Weird?”

Phil chuckled but it wasn’t quite filled with mirth, “Oh, it’s weird as Hell. Pip’s said as much as well,” he sobered and continued, “but Chris: I don’t want to let you go.”

“I’d like to try.” Chris didn’t specify what, exactly. It was still too confusing, although ideas were starting to flit around: dating. Being _together_. Of course, that depended a little on what was possible— “How long can you stay?”

“A couple weeks at least. The good thing about being Surgeon General is no one questions when I want to work remotely.”

Chris raised an eyebrow, “Half a galaxy is pretty remote.”

“Fine, call it an inspection tour.” He smirked, “Rich’ll indulge me. We can make it a regular thing while you’re posted out here.” Barnett probably would, too. He’d always been fond of Phil. The chrono chimed again and Chris stiffened, pulling back to check the time. Phil gave him a gentle shove, “Go on, grab a shower and I’ll get breakfast started. Can’t be late your first week.”

Grumbling, Chris heaved his legs over the side of the bed and reached for his brace. “I’m base commander. I think whenever I show up is considered on time.”

Phil just gave him a good-natured swat on the shoulder.

************

Balthazar Edison. The man’s face stared back at Chris from official ‘fleet records as he thought aloud, “For decades, the Federation told us that he was a hero, but time could judge us all.”

By his side, Jim made a little noise that might have been compassion. “He just got lost.”

Turning to face the younger man, Chris took in the still-healing marks around his eye socket and asserted, “You saved this entire base, Jim. Millions of souls.”

“It wasn't just me.” Jim smiled, looking a little lost himself for a moment before he seemed to straighten, “Never is.”

The files of the Franklin’s crew snapped shut— case closed. They watched in silence until the last one vanished, then Jim turned to Chris more directly and asked, “So you and Phil, huh?”

Trust the kid to have noticed; although to be fair, Leonard had caught them eating lunch together the day after Chris’ birthday. He was pretty sure the doctor might have spotted them loosely holding hands when they thought no one was watching.

Jim smiled and continued without waiting for a reply, “I’m glad. For both of you.”

A weight he hadn’t fully appreciated lifted from Chris shoulders. “Me too.”

“If I didn’t have Bones—” Jim swallowed, shrugged, “I guess, after Edison, I can see how you could lose yourself a bit, alone out here.”

“You be good to that doctor of yours, Jim. He deserves it.”

Jim laughed then, unselfconscious and as if he’d finally shaken off the melancholy that seemed to linger after the loss of the Enterprise. “You be good to yours.”

Chris grinned. Touche. Slinging an arm around Jim’s shoulders he started steering them towards the door as he asked, “How about we pick them up from medical and head to my place? Philippa Georgiu sent me a station-warming gift and the woman has a truly exceptional taste in whisky.”

Jim leaned into the arm and Chris couldn’t help a little thrill that, yes, this was his life.

He’d miss his Jamie until the day he died, but _this_ life, now— this was a gift he wasn’t going to squander.


End file.
